Shooting Stars

An Excerpt from Chapter 8 of a Row with Two Chairs

On our third day of camp, a Saturday of a long weekend, the sun began to dip behind the mountains as evening came. We had been given free time earlier to explore or participate in any excursions the retreat offered. I had signed up for fly fishing, something I had always wanted to try and felt full of God’s creation after standing in mountain streams for the better part of two hours. 

The warm spring sun painted my face red while I stood in the gorgeous greens and yellows of a landscape that the creator of the earth could only paint. Being my first time to fly fish, I only caught a couple of fish, thanks to the help of our guide, but I quickly realized that the catching was not the point. I just stood there, feeling the push of cold mountain water surrounding me in my chest-high waders, allowing me to breathe in the beauty of the surrounding mountains. It felt like the power of God was holding me as I stretched into a new phase of existence. God wasn’t letting go. He held me tightly, as tightly as the water that surrounded me, and now he was asking me to let go of some of that fear; it would be imperative for the next lesson. After returning, we finished dinner as a group and then reconvened for what was to be our final session of the night. 

Back in the auditorium, John Eldredge took to the stage and started to teach on hearing the voice of God. He didn’t conduct every session, usually only coming in for the weighty content that needed the author’s touch, a counselor, a communicator who had originally been given the message to share. Eldredge had all of these aspects in spades. To clear the field and communicate that hearing God’s voice was possible, he broke down several scriptures that point to the understanding that we can hear from God, and all we must do is listen. 

Romans 10:17
So faith comes from hearing and hearing through the word of Christ.

John 10:27
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.”

John 8:47
“Whoever is of God hears the words of God. The reason why you do not hear them is that you are not of God.” 

Eldredge closed the thought with reassurance. “You know his voice; you just have to listen for it.” He then prompted us to enter into a covenant of silence with each other, not speaking until after this exercise. We must give everyone the space to hear what God is saying. We were invited then to find a quiet place to journal, write three questions and pose them to God, listening for his answers. 

I wanted to hear my new name, be given my “marching orders,” and know if I was on the right path. Sure, it was only the third day of our retreat, and to be more precise, we had barely been on the premises for fifty hours, but now we were headlong into this journey, and indeed, this would be the point where God shows up and shows off for each of us. Expectation and excitement replaced my anxiety and fears. This exercise was why I came here. 

As we were released from the collective session for our quiet personal time with God, we scattered like cockroaches when a light turned on. We could go wherever we wanted, wherever we felt the most comfortable, and where we felt like we could experience God the most. I sprinted back to my cabin to get more appropriately dressed for the night mountain air, as I had this brilliant idea to climb as high as I could on the trails behind the camp, up the mountain to a cross that had been rumored to be at the top of the path. To get there, I would need a heavier jacket, a headlamp, better boots, and such. I grabbed all the required items I had bought for this trip, put away my notebook and Bible, and headed off into the darkness. 

As the ambient light of the campground dwindled, I found myself charging up through the darkness toward a location I had only heard rumors of. Each step again reminded me of the high elevation, while the labored breathing and intensity of each beat of my heart also reminded me that I was not from this part of the country. I quickly realized that getting to the top of this mountain was beyond my skill. Escaping the last drops of light from Frontier Ranch, I stood on a dark trail lit by my red headlamp and dug deep for the energy to execute each step higher. While it was cold enough to see my breath in the air, I was cooking in my jacket, my intense exertion generating massive amounts of heat. I shed my coat, removed my sweater, and now walked in the dark and cold, wearing only a t-shirt while I sought to hear God’s voice. 

Between my labored breaths, I mumbled a prayer carefully crafted to minimize my expectations. “God. I don’t expect to get my new name or hear your voice; I know I haven’t been doing this for very long. If you could give me a sign, a shooting star, or something to say you are there, I would be more than happy.” I looked to the sky to see a moonless night filled with stars, but none were shooting. I waited just to make sure, but nothing happened that seemed to fit my request. 

I started to hunt for a place to sit. It was as dark as dark could get on this mountain, and that red light was not helpful when trying to see a spot to rest. Still, I found a bed of pine needles and leaves in a small clearing away from the path that invited my weary body to sit. I removed the coat from around my waist, laid it on the bed of pine needles, and nested into it as if it were the most luxurious couch overlooking the most magnificent view in the world. 

Looking down the mountain, I could see the faint glimmer of the lights from Frontier Ranch. Trees mostly covered them on the path down, and above those trees, the dark silhouettes of mountains in the distance supported a sky full of stars glowing brightly and unaffected by light pollution. Collectively, they spoke to the grandeur of the universe. I sat in silence, only broken by the occasional movement of my own body in the leaves and pine needles. To better take in the view, I lay on my back, looking at all the dots of light from the billions of stars in my field. 

“So many stars,” I thought, “and none of them shooting.” 

My disappointment was quickly interrupted by the faint crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps up the mountain behind me. I turned to see another red headlamp bobbing with each step as it traveled down the mountain. I waited until it was close enough and then turned on my red light. Red headlamps are used in extremely dark scenarios as they give the eye enough light to see without removing the acclimation to the dark. Turning on mine would alert the oncoming visitor that he had stumbled upon another person desiring to hear from God. 

Breaking the covenant of silence, I projected my voice in a whisper toward the approaching dark figure. “Did you hear anything?” 

“No,” he replied, whispering, “did you?” 

“No,” I answered with disappointment. 

The dark figure came to join me at my perch on the side of this mountain and asked if I would mind if he sat with me. I welcomed the company. He sat his body down next to me and offered an introduction. “Hi, I’m Jake.” I reciprocated, and we talked about what we came to this mountain hoping to find. In the realm of organic conversation, the kind two strangers might have on the side of a dark mountain, we started to explore the questions we had brought to God. 

The scene was so dark I could only see the silhouette of Jake’s head against the starry sky as he shared with me his questions, the questions he was bringing to God. His were vastly different from my own. He was in seminary, engaged to be married, and had the kind of questions most anyone would have while standing at the precipice of a new life. I asked for more detail and offered what I thought God might say, how I felt like God would affirm his journey, his calling, and his marriage that was to come. I told him I thought God was probably very proud of him and delighted in him. I postulated further that the bumps in the road were there to keep him on the right path and that the actual journey there was much more important than where he was headed. 

These words were easy to come by, as this is what I hoped God was feeling about me. I wasn’t engaged to be married, nor was I heading into seminary, but there is something much easier about giving praise and love to another person than believing that the same praise and love are available to ourselves. 

I shared with him the things I had hoped to find: my new name, marching orders, and some indication of what was next. I shared with him a brief recounting of what had happened to me four months prior and up to that night. How I felt like God saved me from my hell, and how magical and memorable the journey had been since. Jake was in seminary, and my story sounded to him like a “road to Damascus” experience like Paul’s. He spoke of God’s delight in each step I took every day I stepped toward Him. 

Jake chuckled a little when he suggested how elated God must have been to have me back. “Can you imagine the party in heaven?” 

It was the most personal, powerful, non-religious, heartfelt time of prayer between two men in the darkness on the side of the mountain. In a moment of revelation, a budding epiphany birthed my speculation: 

“What if God was using you,” I postulated, “and using me as a means through which to communicate what He felt? Maybe through each other, we are hearing the voice of God?” 

And just like that, the brightest, most glorious shooting star came across the sky.